Page 56 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

For a moment, I thought he forgot about my underwear, or maybe he doesn’t want this to go as far as I do.

But then I’m pushed back against the tree in my previous position, him pressing against me from behind.

“These are in my way,” he complains, his breath hot against my ear.

Without warning, he hooks his fingers into the waistband and tears the delicate fabric apart.

I gasp at the sudden exposure to the cool night air, but the chill is immediately replaced by the heat of his palm against my bare skin, exploring, teasing. “Forrest, someone could see.”

“It turns me on,” he answers promptly. “Let them watch. Get a glimpse of what’s all mine, and what they can never, ever have.”

The way he’s talking makes me swell with need. We’re alone, not a living soul in sight, but what’s more concerning…even if there were, I don’t know if we could stop.

“You’re so wet. Tell me, baby, do you get wet for me or stay wet for me?” he growls, his fingers finding proof of my arousal. “Bet you dream about my hard cock all day, don’t you? Is that why you’re such a good girl? You want to be rewarded?”

In one fluid motion, he drops to his knees behind me, hands gripping my hips to steady me. I barely have time to process what’s happening before I feel his mouth on me, his tongue exploring my most intimate places with devastating precision.

“Oh sweet hell,” I moan, my fingers grappling at the tree bark.

The sensation of his mouth against me is overwhelming—hot and insistent, his tongue flicking and circling with expert knowledge of what will drive me to the edge.

His hands knead the flesh of my ass, spreading me wider for his ministrations.

The cool night air contrasts with the heat of his breath, creating a cascade of sensations that makes my knees buckle.

He devours me like a man starved, his tongue circling my clit in exquisite, deliberate patterns that have me seeing stars. When he adds suction, I cry out involuntarily, the sound echoing through the trees. Birds scatter from a nearby branch, startled by my vocalization.

My legs begin to tremble, and just when I think they might give out, he slides two fingers inside me, curving them in a “come hither” motion that hits exactly the right spot.

The dual sensation—his tongue relentless against my clit, his fingers delving inside me—sends waves of pleasure radiating from my core.

“ Oh god ,” I pant, the tension building low in my belly. “I’m going to?—”

“Not yet,” he commands, suddenly withdrawing. Before I can protest the loss, he’s standing again, spinning me to face him. “Hands,” he says, holding up the handcuffs.

I extend my wrists without hesitation, watching as he secures the metal around them.

The cuffs aren’t tight enough to hurt but snug enough that I can’t slip free.

The constraint is deliciously erotic, as we fall into something more intimate than anything we’ve done before. His control. My surrender.

The metal is cold against my skin, the weight unfamiliar but not unpleasant. Each tiny movement causes the chain connecting the cuffs to jingle softly, a constant reminder of my willing captivity. I test their strength, pulling slightly, and feel a thrill at the unyielding resistance.

“Put your arms around my neck,” he instructs, and I comply, the cuffs forcing my arms to remain together as they encircle him.

With my arms raised, he takes the opportunity to yank up the top of my chunky cream sweater and wireless bra, exposing my breasts to the moonlight. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight.

“Perfect,” he admires, before lowering his head to take one nipple into his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue sends electricity coursing through me, and I arch into the feeling, my bound hands pulling him closer.

The contrast of sensations is unnerving—the cool metal of the handcuffs, the rough texture of the tree bark against my back, and the hot pressure of his mouth on my sensitive flesh.

He alternates between gentle suction and the sharpness of his teeth, bringing me to the razor’s edge between pleasure and pain.

While his mouth works its magic on my breast, his hand scopes back between my legs, resuming its earlier rhythm. His fingers find me slick and ready, circling my entrance before plunging back inside. The dual sensation is mind-blowing, and I find myself racing toward the edge again.

“Please,” I beg, not entirely sure what I’m asking for.

Forrest understands. He withdraws long enough to undo his pants fully, freeing himself. Even in the dim moonlight, I can see how hard he is, how ready. The sight of him—powerful, aroused, barely controlled—sends another rush of heat through me.

“Are you on birth control?” he asks, the question so practical amidst our primal encounter that I almost laugh.

“Yes,” I confirm.

“I don’t have a condom, Sora. If we’re going to do this, it’s just us and trust. You want it, or you want to stop?”

“Don’t you dare stop,” I say, pouting. “Us and trust. I want it .”

With that logistical hurdle cleared, he lifts me effortlessly, my back pressed against the tree for leverage. I wrap my legs around his waist, the position opening me up to him perfectly. The bark scrapes against my exposed skin, a rough counterpoint to the smoothness of his body against mine.

“Look at me,” he demands as he positions himself at my entrance. “I want to see your eyes when I fill you for the first time.”

I obey, locking my gaze with his as he pushes forward in one long, slow thrust that steals the breath from my lungs. The stretch is delicious, my body too tense at first, then slowly adjusting to accommodate his size. I can feel every inch of him, hot and hard.

“Fuck,” he groans when he’s fully seated. “You feel incredible.”

For a moment, neither of us moves, savoring the connection. I can feel his heartbeat through our joined bodies, racing in time with my own. The night seems to have gone completely silent around us, as if nature itself is holding its breath.

Then he begins to withdraw almost completely before driving back in, establishing a rhythm that has me wincing in pleasure with each thrust. The sensation is…

too much, and not enough. The fullness, the friction, the knowledge that it’s him inside me, claiming me in the most animalistic way possible.

“Harder,” I beg, tightening my legs around him. “ Please, fuck. Yes, I need —” I stop, unable to finish my thought. I don’t know what I need except for this to never end.

He responds by doubling his efforts, his hips snapping against mine with increasing force.

The bark of the tree scratches against my back, but the slight discomfort only enhances the pleasure, grounding me in the reality of the moment.

The sound of our bodies coming together, skin against skin, fills the clearing, punctuated by our ragged breathing.

“All fucking mine,” he growls against my neck, underscoring the declaration with a particularly deep thrust. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” I gasp, the words feeling like both surrender and victory.

He shifts his angle slightly, and suddenly he’s hitting a spot inside me that fires electricity up my spine. I cry out, my bound hands clutching desperately at his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh through his shirt.

“That’s it,” he encourages, maintaining the new angle. “Now, baby. Come for me. Coat me.”

The tension builds to an almost unbearable peak, and then I’m falling, crashing over the edge with an intensity that has me singing his name in worship like a hymn. Wave after wave of pleasure rolls through me, until I’m left trembling and boneless in his arms.

Forrest doesn’t slow his pace, chasing his own release.

Overly satiated, I’m a rag doll in his hands, and he has no problem using me.

His rhythm becomes more erratic, his breathing harsh against my skin.

His hands grip my thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh, probably leaving marks that I’ll discover tomorrow with secret satisfaction.

“Inside or out?” he manages to ask, ever the gentleman even in the midst of our feral encounter.

“Inside,” I whisper, wanting to claim him in a way of my own.

With a final, powerful thrust, he buries himself to the hilt and finds his release, his body shuddering against mine. I feel the hot pulse of him deep inside, marking me in the most intimate way possible. His forehead drops to my shoulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps against my skin.

For several moments, we stay locked together, both of us breathing hard, coming down from the height of pleasure.

The night air cools our overheated skin, raising goose bumps along my exposed flesh.

The distant hoot of an owl reminds me that we’re outdoors, exposed, vulnerable—yet I’ve never felt safer than in his arms.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers my feet back to the ground, supporting me until he’s sure my legs will hold. They feel like liquid, barely capable of supporting my weight, and I lean heavily against him as he zips and buckles, righting himself.

The shift in his demeanor is immediate and striking. Gone is the dominant, possessive lover, replaced by tender concern as he gently removes the handcuffs.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice soft as he massages my wrists where the metal had rested. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

I shake my head, still too breathless for words. My mind feels pleasantly fuzzy, my body humming with satisfied energy.

He helps me back into my leggings, covering my exposed skin with careful attention. His fingers linger, almost reverent, as they roll the stretchy fabric back into place. Then he reaches into his pocket, pulling out the remnants of my underwear.

“Souvenir,” he says with a slight smirk, tucking the torn fabric away. “Sorry about that.”

“No, you’re not.” I laugh, finally finding my voice.

“You’re right, I’m not.” He kisses my forehead, gentle now. “But I am sorry if I got carried away.”

“Don’t be. That was…” I search for the right word. “Enlightening.”

His chuckle is low and warm, vibrating through his chest against my cheek. “Enlightening? Sure.”

“It was,” I defend, feeling my strength returning gradually.

“I finally understand the appeal of dark romance. It’s not about the fear itself—it’s about the surrender, the trust. It’s about knowing someone could hurt you, but trusting they won’t.

About giving up control and finding freedom in that release. ”

“The surrender,” he echoes, his fingers tracing the curve of my cheek. “I like that.”

Before I can say more, he scoops me up into his arms, cradling me against his chest. Dipping back down, he tells me to collect my boots in my hands. “I rented a car for the day. I’m carrying you back to the parking lot. Don’t argue.”

“Wasn’t going to argue,” I mumble, resting my head against his shoulder. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat is comforting, and I find myself relaxing completely in his embrace.

His arms around me feel like sanctuary—strong, secure, safe. The night has taken on a dreamlike quality, the haunted house and its manufactured fears seeming distant and inconsequential compared to the raw, real emotion between us.

As he carries me down the path, away from the haunted mansion and back toward reality, I can’t help but reflect on what just happened. On what it means for us. On the sharp distinction between the terror I was meant to feel in that house versus the exhilaration I experienced in his arms.

“You know,” I say into the comfortable silence, “I don’t think I could pull off writing dark romance. But I definitely want to see this version of you again sometime. In the bedroom.”

He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath my ear. “Sora, you can have any version of me you want, whenever you want it.”

The implication hangs in the air— versions or acts ? Moments that won’t last? Promises he can’t keep? I’m too tired to offer a coherent response right now, so I let it go.

The path winds downhill, illuminated now by the full moon that has emerged from behind the clouds.

The mansion looms behind us, its windows like watchful eyes tracking our departure.

But its manufactured horrors hold no power over me now—it looks more comical than anything, me leaving with exactly what I came here for. A revelation.

Forrest’s car comes into view, a sleek SUV rental parked at the base of the hill. He shifts me carefully in his arms to reach his keys, but doesn’t put me down until he’s opened the passenger door and can gently place me on the seat.

“I’m not made of glass, you know,” I say as he buckles my seat belt for me, treating me with exaggerated care. “I won’t break.”

“I know,” he says, brushing the wayward hair from my face. “Miss Independent, tough-as-nails, hangs-your-own-moon.” He smiles at me sweetly. “I know you can take care of yourself. But I like to pretend you need me.”

I do need you. I think it; I dare not say it.

He circles to the driver’s side, slides in beside me, and starts the engine. As we pull away from Hellfire Manor, I reach across the console to take his hand, lacing my fingers through his.

For once, I’m not overthinking. I’m not planning or projecting or anticipating failure. I’m just here, in his car, feeling the cool night air from the vents on my face and the warmth of his hand in mine.

And for now, it feels like, The End .